Entangled (15 page)

He gave a short laugh. “You never change,
Billie. You’re the same stubborn, I can handle things myself, cuss
you were at eight.”

“Okay,” I said, my interest now piqued. “What
does that have to do with why you’re here?”

He began brushing the dirt off his jeans,
avoiding eye contact. “Your mother called a couple hours ago and
asked if I would come out and check on you. She said she was
worried because you hadn’t answered your phone all day.”

“What? What else did she say? It must have
been something good or you wouldn’t have made a trip all the way
out here in the wee hours of the morning. I’m sure even you have
been known to ignore the phone at times; let the answering machine
pick up.”

He bent down and picked up the baseball cap
he’d dropped, adjusting it carefully on his head. “She said you
might be suffering from depression,” he said. His gaze drifted
slightly over my left shoulder.

“Depression? Why would she think I was
suffering from depression just because I didn’t answer the damn
phone?” The tiny fragment of truth in that presumption did not give
her an excuse to broadcast my past inclinations to a man I hardly
knew. Mother would get a piece of my mind when she got here.

He shook his head, his gaze still wandering.
“I don’t know.”

“What are you looking at?” Exasperated, I
turned around and stared at the buildings behind me.

“I thought I saw something move, but it must
have been the trees blowing.”

“Were you walking around behind the house a
little while ago?” I asked, suddenly wanting everything to be a big
misunderstanding. I could go back in, forget about protecting the
winery from vandals, and pack my bags for home. I was tired.

His brows drew together and he shook his
head. “I drove up, went to the front door, saw you standing here
and came over.” He tentatively touched his sore nose. “I think you
know the rest.”

“Well, I saw someone sneaking around back
there. That’s why I came outside. Thought I might thwart another
break-in to the winery. Charlie told you about that, didn’t he?” I
pushed the sleeves up on my sweatshirt and placed my hands on my
hips. “You wouldn’t happen to know any kids around here that fall
into the trouble category, would you? Besides Davy, that is.”

“Neighbors?” He shook his head slowly, the
lines at the corners of his eyes more pronounced when he was
frowning in thought. “Nope. But the question should be: what the
hell were you thinking, coming out here to confront a prowler
instead of calling the police?”

“Thanks for your concern, but I’m quite
capable of taking care of myself.” I tilted my head and smiled
sweetly. “I took care of you, didn’t I?”

He expelled a frustrated breath. “Sure, but I
wasn’t fighting back, and most important, I’m not the
intruder!”

His anger cut me to the core. “You sound
pretty intrusive to me. You and my mother.” I started to walk away,
intent on cocooning myself back inside the house, hiding from
Handel, my mother, and life in general. I no longer knew why I was
here or even cared.

“Are you running away, Billie?”

I stopped. Handel’s baiting struck a chord
within me. Was I willing to run away? From everything? Go back to
the way it was, practice law, pretend none of this had ever
happened, assured that my past was dead and couldn’t catch up? Was
I so fearful of the truth? And what exactly was the truth? If I
left now, I probably would never know.

Streaks of pink colored the horizon as the
sun began its ascent, to illuminate the world and perhaps my soul,
with startling clarity that I couldn’t look away from. I turned
around and met Handel’s gaze, a dare to be taken.

“Fredricksons don’t run away from anything,”
I said, and I meant it.

He looked pleased. “Good. Then let’s go check
out the winery.”

“What about the police?”

He shrugged. “Who needs the police when I’ve
got you?”

*****

The winery appeared locked up tight, no sign
of breaking and entering, or doors left open to fate. We walked
around the outbuildings and through the trees behind the house, but
found no trace of a prowler even in the growing light of
morning.

I told Handel about the key I’d found in the
cellar after the break-in. He frowned thoughtfully. “Are you sure
it wasn’t already down there? Maybe it fell out of one of the
boxes.”

I shrugged. “That’s possible I guess. You
don’t think it may have been a disgruntled employee, maybe someone
Jack fired from the winery?”

“I don’t think Jack ever fired anyone in his
life,” he said with a shake of his head.

Handel smiled when we stopped by the tire
swing. He put a hand on either side and held it steady. “Get in.
I’ll send you to the clouds.”

“Now that sounds familiar,” I said, returning
his smile.

“It should. You took a lot of trips
there.”

I pulled myself up to sit in the curve of the
tire. “Not as comfortable as I remember though.”

He laughed and began to push me, higher and
higher, until my head did feel as though it might touch the clouds.
I closed my eyes and leaned back, feeling the rush of air against
my face as I flew upward. The euphoria of childhood is hard to
recapture, but for a moment I could swear we were back there. When
I opened my eyes I was sure that Handel would be standing in his
overalls, bare-chested, his skin as brown as a Mexican migrant
worker.

I didn’t think childhood friendship could
spark such feelings of intimacy. What was it about Handel that
always brought my emotions to the surface so readily? Anger,
attraction, frustration, happiness; all feelings I’d experienced in
passing, but with Handel they were more intense, like being
influenced by a powerful drug.

I opened my eyes, only slightly disappointed
that Handel was no longer ten-years-old. He had matured rather well
and wasn’t half bad to look at, when I wasn’t angry with him. He
stepped back and watched as the swing slowly lost altitude, his
hands in the front pockets of his jeans, and a crooked smile on his
lips.

“Where’d ja go?” he asked, a perfect
imitation of his boyhood slang.

I looked up and pointed. “You see that cloud?
The one that looks like a rhinoceros? I landed up there.” I slipped
out of the swing and stood facing him. “Thanks for the ride,
Handy.”

“Any time.”

Later I would blame my actions on feelings of
nostalgia or the romantic way the sky reflected in his eyes, but at
that moment I didn’t need an excuse. I just drew his head down and
kissed him. Not a quick thank you kiss, or a hasty goodbye kiss,
but a long, deep, soul-searching, can’t catch my breath kiss. And
then I ran into the house to hide.

~~~

CHAPTER TEN

H
andel must have been
just as confused by my actions as I was because he didn’t follow
me. In fact, a couple minutes after I ensconced myself back in the
bedroom, I heard his car spin out in the gravel drive as he fled
the scene. I went into the bathroom and stood staring in the mirror
for several minutes, unable to decide whether I enjoyed making a
fool of myself or just came by it naturally. Then I noticed
Handel’s blood on my sweatshirt. This I could handle. I put it in
the sink to soak and went to get a clean t-shirt.

As I pulled open the top drawer I remembered
the envelope hidden there, but it was too late. It peeked out from
under my clothes, daring me to accept the past, the pain, the
reality of the unknown.

My fingers tightened on the envelope and I
drew it out. Sometimes life feels as if it moves in slow motion,
like watching the progression of the minute hand on a watch. I
stared at the envelope in my hand for what seemed an eternity
before climbing up in the middle of the bed, sitting cross-legged,
and opening the flap.

The top photograph shocked me as it had in
the cellar, familiar faces, younger and more vibrant, uttering
their secrets without ever saying a word. My mother, her long hair
shining down her back, her face bright and smiling, as beautiful as
any model on the cover of Glamour magazine, being held possessively
in the arms of a handsome young man. A man that was not my
father.

I was afraid to look at the other
photographs, because I knew they would be more of the same.
Pictures of Jack and my mother — in love. Pictures that told a
story, and in the wrong hands could spawn a whirlwind of trouble. I
was afraid they already had.

Handel’s story of my father beating Jack
within an inch of his life suddenly took on new meaning. Was I the
catalyst that spawned the whirlwind? Memory swirled in my mind,
bits and pieces of the day I found the photographs in Uncle Jack’s
desk, stared at each one with eyes of confusion, anger, and fear.
The pictures brought out a protective instinct in me, a need to
shield my father from the truth. I hid them in the hole behind the
file cabinets, a place I’d discovered when Jack left me alone in
the cellar one day, and hoped they would never be found again. I
didn’t remember showing them to my father, but then my ability to
recall was something other than exemplary.

I dumped them out on the bed and spread them
around me, snapshots of my mother and uncle kissing, embracing, and
posing for the camera like young lovers on their honeymoon. I
couldn’t remember my parents ever acting that way in front of me.
Perhaps my father was a private person, incapable of demonstrative
actions, keeping his lovemaking strictly for the bedroom.
Obviously, mother had no such compunctions. Or was she only this
way with Jack, the adventurer, the man who wasn’t afraid of taking
chances? Did she take chances when she was with him? What happened
to make her settle for good, old, dependable Dad?

My eyes misted over and I sniffed away the
moment. Feeling sorry for myself because my parent’s marriage had
been a sham was a useless endeavor. Every child wants to feel that
they were conceived in love. Mother said she loved Dad until the
day he died and whether or not it was the kind of passion I could
clearly see in these photographs, my parent’s love for one another
was real enough. A sturdy, faithful, forgiving love that accepted
life for what it was. At least that’s what I chose to believe.

I scooped up the photographs and stuffed them
back into the envelope. These were other people’s memories, not
mine. I was a mature, levelheaded woman. I could accept that my
mother had lived a life at one time totally separate from my own.
She may have had affairs with ten different men before she married
my father. It didn’t matter to me as long as my memories were safe.
But were they?

*****

Mother arrived like a Midwest tornado,
heralded by Adam’s alarm but still surprising in her ability to
annihilate my self-esteem by taking over my life. Handel was her
mode of transportation, the trunk of his car barely able to contain
all of her luggage. Perhaps his flight from the house earlier
wasn’t precipitated by my actions but rather the need to get to the
airport on time. Now I had to reevaluate my conclusions as to what,
if any, impact my kiss had on the man.

I stood stoically by the front door of the
house, watching as Handel swept past me, carrying Mother’s things,
intentionally avoiding my gaze. Mother followed, clasping the
handles of her purse and carry-on bag in one hand, the other
stretched forth to pull me into an embrace. She hugged me and then
pulled back to look directly into my eyes.

“How are you, Darling?” she asked
overdramatically, as though she were playing the part of Joan
Crawford in
Mommy Dearest
. She held my hand in hers and
squeezed it slightly.

I squeezed back, just to let her know I could
play the game too. “I’m swell, Mother, now that you’re here. I’m
sure I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Now Wilhelmina, there is no use in trying to
pretend with me. You needed me and now I’m here. It’s as simple as
that.” She released my hand and brushed my bangs away from my face,
the way she always did when I was a little girl. Messy hair was a
blot on her mothering skills and I mustn’t let people think she let
me out of the house un-groomed.

“Why is it, Mother, that the more complicated
you make my life, the simpler it is for you?” I turned and followed
Handel into the house, not waiting for her reply.

Handel had stopped in the living room, and
stood with his arms crossed, waiting, with the bags at his feet. I
approached him warily; afraid he would say or do something that
would transmit to my mother as a budding relationship. We certainly
had nothing of the kind. One kiss. That’s all it was. Nothing to
write home about, and definitely, nothing to tell my mother
about.

“You can put those in the guest room. I
already moved into the master bedroom,” I informed Handel
needlessly, as though he might care which bedroom I now occupied. I
turned to leave.

“Where are you going, honey?” Mother asked
from the doorway.

“To the kitchen, to commit suicide with a
corkscrew.”

I heard Handel’s soft laugh behind me as I
fled the room.

I opened the remaining bottle of wine left on
the counter and poured a glass for myself. It wasn’t the same
full-bodied burgundy as before but certainly capable of taking the
edge off my nerves. Uncle Jack may have had a few flaws in his
character but he made a good bottle of wine, and in the winemaking
industry that’s all that really matters. Who was I to besmirch his
person with past history?

I sat in a chair at the table and put my feet
up on the chair across from me, slouched low on my tailbone with my
head leaned back, and stared up at the ceiling. My mother was here
and there was no getting rid of her, at least not in the
foreseeable future. She had decided I needed her and she would not
be dissuaded.